


wrists

by eden22



Series: Scars [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e19 Jump the Shark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, misinterpretation of scars, not actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eden22/pseuds/eden22
Summary: Sam knows the second it has happened, has seen it enough in the last couple of months to recognize it instantly; the quick succession of expressions, the slight widening of the eyes, the indrawn breath, the final look, flicking between his arms and his face. Sometimes it’s pity, other times sympathy.
Series: Scars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848178
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	wrists

Sam knows the second it has happened, has seen it enough in the last couple of months to recognize it instantly; the quick succession of expressions, the slight widening of the eyes, the indrawn breath, the final look, flicking between his arms and his face. Sometimes it’s pity, other times sympathy. The worst is the misplaced sense of solidarity though, the false understanding of shared experiences, matching scars. Those are the ones where he is most tempted to say something first, to break the silence and invite further conversation, to let them know _I’m not like you, please don’t think we’re the same_. Not because of shame or… or a desire not to be thought of that way, but because it feels like a lie, a disservice to let someone think that the battle that they have fought, are fighting, is the same one he is fighting. But there’s no lie he can tell that will sound any less ridiculous than the truth, so he just offers up a tight lipped smile and hopes that they won’t comment on it. 

He knows that it’s a doomed hope in this case even before the woman opens her mouth. It at least wasn’t a look of solidarity, thank god, though the pity in her eyes still makes him flinch away from whatever she’s about to say. If she wasn’t a witness… but she is, so he makes himself sit still, makes his face stay in it’s own mask of sympathy and understanding. He wonders, briefly, if a different cover might not have saved him from this, if an FBI badge would have made her pause before speaking. But instead he’s Sam Plant, insurance adjuster, and is pinned in place as she leans forward, reaching out a hand but stopping just shy of placing it atop his own where they are clasped in front of him, the position that he’d slid into mid conversation the same one that had caused his sleeves to ride up, that had put him in this position in the first place. Dean still hasn’t noticed, Sam knows, doesn’t realize what is coming, far too focused on slamming back every single cookie that Rachel McCormick, newly widowed, had put out. 

“I don’t want to overstep,” she says, nodding towards his arms, “but I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry. My sister… well, I’m glad you’re still here. I hope you’ve managed to get help.”

“I have, thanks,” Sam says with a tight smile, fighting to keep his face friendly, though he thinks some of the annoyance bleeds into his voice anyways from the way she leans back slightly. Dean’s looking at him now, confused, but Sam doesn’t look away from McCormick. “Now, you were saying that your husband was acting oddly before his disappearance?” The question proves sufficient to distract her, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief as she begins to talk about her husband’s increasingly bizarre pre-death behaviour. 

“What was that?” Dean asks, almost the second the doors of the impala close behind them. 

“What?” Sam replies, playing dumb like that’ll do anything to dissuade Dean. Dean shoots him a look before starting the car, the impala shuddering to life under his hands with a low growl. 

“You know what,” he says. _“I hope you’ve managed to get help,”_ he repeats, voice going high in a horrible attempt at mimicking McCormick’s voice. “What does that even mean?” Sam rolls his eyes, fighting the urge to fidget. Fuck but he didn’t want to talk about this. 

“C’mon man,” he says. Dean shoots him a long look, long enough that Sam has to bite down on the impulse to tell him to watch the road. “Y’know,” he finally says, holding up his wrists before gesturing vaguely. Dean’s eyes flick between his arms and the road. 

“Know what?” he asks, and Sam blinks at him, because seriously? 

“The scars from the ghoul attack,” Sam says, speaking slowly. Dean glances at Sam’s arms and then back at the road again. 

“What about th–” he starts, then abruptly cuts himself off, and Sam knows that he’s finally gotten there, finally worked past his knowledge of what happened to what it looks like from an outsider’s perspective. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. 

“Fuck,” Dean says. “Seriously?” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, straight cuts across the wrist, what would you think in any other context?” Dean winces. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess there’s not really much else…” he trails off, thinking for a second, and Sam lets him, takes a moment to look out the window, at the suburban streets flashing by where this really would be the worst option, the only option – where monsters that would slash your wrists for you don’t exist. 

“Sucks,” Dean finally says, breaking the silence, and Sam turns back to him, raising an eyebrow when he doesn’t say anything else. Dean’s eyes flick to Sam and then back to the road. “To have people think that about you,” he clarified. Sam shrugs because yeah, but it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it. 

“Do you ever…?” Sam asks. Dean shakes his head, glances down at Sam’s wrists again, at the thick lines of scar tissue there, stark white against his summer tan. 

“Don’t have any scars quite like yours Sammy,” he says, and Sam laughs even though it really isn’t funny. 

“Guess not,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> back on my bullshit bc I'm rewatching all of Supernatural and thinking about how many scars the Winchesters would have, and what other people would think of them.


End file.
